Jeffery Deaver - Edge

Even over the roar of the water I could hear the click of the camera.

“Maree?”

She said nothing but continued to shoot. She then turned toward me and took a picture. I gave no reaction and she leaned back against the rock.

I looked at her haunted eyes. Was she about to take her own life?

“Maree. I’d like you back inside now.”

Finally she called, “It’s beautiful here… You gave me my money’s worth for the tour.”

“Please.”

“How would this be for a photo series?” Eerily, the sisters had swapped roles. Joanne was the emotional one now, whipped into a frenzy. Maree was the opposite, numb, calm.

Too calm.

“What do you think?” she continued. “A series of images of someone falling into the water. I wonder how long the camera would keep shooting. I could put it on automatic. But I suppose the battery would short out pretty soon. How long do you think it would last?”

“Maree. Come on back.”

“Not very long. But the pictures’d be stored on the chip… It’s hard to get a gallery show. Hard to sell your images. But I’ll bet that series’d be a winner. Put me on the map.”

My job is to keep my principals safe from everything, even their own self-destructive behaviors. Which was often the hardest part. In the extreme circumstances of the world I operate in, it’s not unusual for people to consider suicide. None of my principals has ever gone forward with the act but I’ve known shepherds who have lost people to their own hand. Usually it’s on longer assignments, when the days of seclusion amble slowly into months and the principals begin to hear more and more frequently sounds that are innocent enough but that they take to be lifters or hitters getting close for the kill.

More insidious is their own reasoning, convincing themselves that the life they’ve lived is over with, that family and friends will fade away, that they have nothing to look forward to. And for the rest of their days they’ll be pursued. Death is a peaceful alternative.

In Maree’s case, she was starting from a disadvantage: her self-destructive nature. Falling for abusive boyfriends, neglecting to provide for the basics in her life, jumping from caretaker to caretaker, who in fact only took advantage of her and then got tired when the appeal of the flirt, the cuteness, the artiness, wore off.

She looked down at the water.

I rose carefully and walked a little closer, then sat down again. “Don’t worry, I’m not trained to tackle people and save them from ledges. The fact is, I’m fucking scared to be up here.”

Her look said, Spare the jokes, Mr. Tour Guide.

Then she regarded the distance between us and judged, it seemed, that she could still leap into the water if I did rush her, and continued to aim her camera and press the shutter. Neither of us said anything for a moment. I broke the embargo. “Whatever your sister was saying, we don’t know for sure that it was your pictures.”

“Images. We call them images.”

“I’m getting more information.”

“But it does make sense, doesn’t it? Taking pictures of people who wanted to stay anonymous. Sticking my nose into other people’s business?” she added bitterly.

“It’s a possibility.” I wasn’t going to coddle her.

“I’m surprised you didn’t think of that, Corte. You think of everything else.”

“I’m surprised I didn’t think of it either.” I was being honest. My investigation into Maree had ended when we cleared Andrew as the possible primary.

She took more pictures.

“I want to say something,” I told her. “It’s important.”

“Under these circumstances,” she said, with a dark grin, “one wouldn’t really expect unimportant, now, would one?”

“One of the hardest things I have to teach my principals is that it doesn’t matter if they’re at fault for being targeted or not. A lot of times they are-it’s because they did something wrong that I’m looking after them. But, yes or no, that’s irrelevant to me. Every principal has the right to stay safe and alive. If you committed a crime, you can pay for that in court. If you did something that was morally wrong, you’ll answer one way or another. None of that’s my business. All I care about is keeping you alive so that you can go forward with your life-whether that’s prison or a happy retirement.”

“But what about what I want, Corte?”

I lifted an eyebrow.

“What if I don’t want to stay safe? What’s in it for me? What’s back there that I could possibly want?” A nod toward the safe house.

“Your family.”

“Two people who don’t care whether I live or die.”

“Of course they do. Maree, if I’m involved, that means this is the worst time people’ve ever gone through and ever will. They say terrible things when they’re under protection. But they don’t mean it. It’s the fear talking. The frustration.”

A few minutes passed and I studied the river. I’ve had principals at this safe house maybe three dozen times and I’ve walked the entire perimeter, looking it over for offensive and defensive positions, ordered trees taken down or plantings put in. But I must say that for all my love of orienteering and sign cutting and hiking, I’ve never actually taken time to enjoy the place.

I turned back and noticed she was rubbing her arm.

“Why did Andrew hurt you?”

Her head dipped. “Didn’t buy the rude businessman thing, hm?”

“No.”

“How’d you guess?”

“I’ve been doing this a long time.”

I suspected she’d stonewall but I was surprised. She answered almost immediately, “The question is what didn’t I do.” An odd laugh. Humorless and stone calm. “And you know, Corte, the scary thing is, I can’t remember. I probably didn’t cook the right dinner or I cooked the right dinner but the wrong way. Or I drank too much wine when his friends were over. I don’t know. All I know is he grabbed me… grabbed and twisted. A tendon popped.” She was gripping the joint. “I cried that night, most of the night. Not because it hurt. But because I was thinking I knew some people’s elbows get hurt doing things like skiing or windsurfing with the people they love. But not me. No, no. I got hurt because somebody I loved wanted to hurt me.”

Staring down at her camera. “But life’s all about trade-offs, isn’t it? I mean, who ever gets a hundred percent? I get excitement, energy, passion. Some women get boredom and drunks.” She didn’t look back to the safe house. “I’d rather have the thrill and a bruise now and then.” A breathy laugh escaped her narrow pink lips. “How politically incorrect is that? But there it is. I’m honest, at least.”

I debated a moment. A long moment and an intense debate. I eased down to the ledge and sat beside her. She made no effort to move away. It was a very small space and our legs touched firmly. I hated being up here and I had to admit I liked the comfort of the proximity.

I considered how much to tell her. I decided on a quantity and said, “I got married just after I graduated.”

“Jo said you’re single now. I wondered if you’d ever been married. The way you looked at Amanda, it was the way a father or uncle looks at a child. You had children?”

I again hesitated and finally nodded but it was clear from my expression that I wasn’t going to talk about that. Maree sensed she’d stepped over a line. She started to say something but didn’t. I continued quickly, “After we’d been married a few years we had a situation. There was a man from my wife’s past who became a problem.”

Maree may have noted that I said “wife” and not “ex,” which imparted some information to her. She was smarter than the package suggested. She frowned her sympathy, which I didn’t respond to.